For Michal,

By John W. Reed

One of the most difficult lessons I have had to learn during my humble life is that all things have a beginning, a middle and eventually an end.  This is true for stunning sunsets, great novels, beautiful flowers and even the stars themselves.  Something so seemingly changeless as the constellations and the bright pinpoints that make them up do eventually have an end.  Yet, no matter how well I have felt that I have mastered this fact,  it is really only head knowledge, merely an intellectual fact.  One rarely ever truly believes something like this until it is brought home by the loss of someone close.

Michal loved and appreciated many things, but of these I can attest mainly to her love of the stars and the people who watch them.  I don’t know if this love was because of her son’s interest in astronomy at a young age, or that she had this interest long before his influence.  Either way she and her son Bob have had a profound affect on each other.  In fact Bob has gone on to become a professional astronomer with Michal always supporting him by way of her love of the sky and the splendor it displays.  I have always liked to think that she has always had a yearning to be connected to the heavens above, as we all do whether we like to admit it or not.

In the depths of space hydrogen gas coalesces, drawn inward by its own gravity, being pulled tighter and tighter until it becomes so dense and hot that it shines with a light of its own.  This is how a star is born.  This star then shines through the middle of its life as a brilliant beacon.   This middle stage lasts for a very long time when considered in human terms.  During this time it spreads its radiance throughout space, suffusing all things around it with light and warmth.  Just as with stars, people affect others around them.  Michal spread her radiance to all of us who knew her.  She was always sharing her enthusiasm for life, nature and astronomy.  She was also constantly mothering those near her, making sure that they felt accepted and loved.  One way she expressed this love was to keep us all well fed.  I know of few amateur astronomers who don’t like to share their love of the sky about as well as the simple enjoyment of food.  Michael was no exception to this, always poking something into our mouths while pointing out yet another object in the night above.

 On the other hand Michal’s life was not always peaceful, and was occasionally punctuated with more volatile expressions of her personality.  When she heard that a soccer field with its accompanying lights was to be built near the astronomy club, she dug in with both heels.  After attending many public hearings, voicing her opinion about having bright lighting in such a natural setting, the project was delayed.  It is ironic that the most powerful light houses in the universe, the stars themselves, can be obscured by mere local night lighting.  Michal feared, as we all do, that someday none of us will be able to share our love of the night sky as it will be shrouded in an ugly artificial glow.

Michal was taken from us very abruptly, much like a star going nova.  When such a star ends its life this way it is sudden and unpredictable.  It flashes into final darkness almost before one can find a clear night and a ready camera to catch its final gleaming.  Michal’s sudden passage has left us all unprepared and unready to accept her departure.  But, just as a nova’s final blinding light spreads out in an ever expanding swath, our memories of her will also echo through our minds and hearts for years to come, affecting both the courses of our lives and the inflection of our thoughts.

 On a cool, dark night several years ago Michal and I gazed through my telescope at a star’s violent ending in a distant galaxy.  A super nova.  We took turns looking at this immense yet distant event shining faintly in my eyepiece and pondered the mysteries of stars and life.  Now I and others close to her are left to ponder this without her.  Michal made me realize that life must be lived to its fullest potential.  It is a fleeting existence we have compared to the stars.  Weather we want to or not we and everything else are caught up in this cycle of beginnings,  middles, and ends.  Michal would, I think, say to make the most of the middle, leaving the beginnings and the ends to take care of themselves.
 
Somewhere deep in space the light from one of these dying stars disturbs some inert floating hydrogen, bumping it slightly, barely displacing its cold and ponderous course.  This effect is small, but enough to change it forever.  It begins again the cycle of birth collapsing and coalescing into an ever hotter orb, finally brightening to shine on its own.  As one star fades, another springs to life.  We must take this example and carry on for Michal, sharing the sky, making sure it is kept dark and clear for our children to enjoy.

Goodbye Michal, we sorely miss you.  We will somehow try to make our lives shine as brightly as yours.

John Reed, March 24, 1999